


Perspectives

by tangelotime



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Study, F/F, F/M, Gen, Self-Harm, this is a pro mage story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4056694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/tangelotime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke was a myth, a legend. The Champion of Kirkwall was a title that didn't leave room for a person. This is a look at an aggressive mage hating mage Hawke throughout the game. A story of snapshots from the eyes of her companions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hawke by Any Other Name

  
Grim satisfaction rushed through Carver as he cleaved the bandit in half. The stink of entrails was familiar; he didn't let it deter him from the business at hand. He lunged forward, slicing through yet another enemy as a burst of magical ice shot past his ear.

It was their first mission outside the walls of Kirkwall, protecting one of Athenril's "trade caravans" from other criminals and the guard.

Working for a smuggler was never high up on Carver's bucket list but it came with a sense of purpose; a goal to reach.

“A couple of snot-nosed refugees,” the caravan leader had scoffed. “Athenril’s gotta be joking.”

“The only joke here is the pathetic excuse you call your guard,” Ann had bit back, eyes wintry. “My brother and I will be the ones mopping up if we’re attacked by someone actually competent.”

“Tough talk, rookie,” she had said, “If you survive this trip, maybe I’ll remember your names.”

Well, as always, it looked like Ann was right.

The bandits hit hard from one side, a complete surprise, nearly breaking the flank. Some of them ran. Ann leaped at the combat, casting a large barrier of ice to buy time, shooting off furious spells and yelling for the grizzled smugglers to work for their damned pay.

“Mage!” came the hoarse shout, “They’ve a mage!”

There were smugglers with jaws dropped too, and Carver felt a moment of frustration- didn’t they brief their lackeys with any useful information? Like who on their side could command the forces of nature to hurl themselves at their enemies? They were as afraid of her as the bandits and he had no doubt none of them knew how to fight with a mage.

Ann had caught too much attention. Six bandits attacked her, with another two archers picking their shots at a distance.

Their so-called allies weren’t about to step near a mage in battle and Ann was _his_ crackbrained apostate sister.

Carver rushed forward, knocking aside her melee attackers with a giant swing.

“You dickheads,” he yelled, “Pick a fight with someone with armor!”

Together, the two siblings whirled, casting devastation on the battlefield until there was no one left and blood stained the shifting sands of the Wounded Coast dark.

The caravan leader clambered down from the wagon and headed toward them, bow in hand and splattered with blood.

"You were right, lass," she said ruefully. "We'd've lost the shipment if not fer the two of you. I suppose you wouldn't care to remind an old woman your names?"

Carver snorted. She never bothered to learn in the first place. Part of him was tempted to call her out on it, and the downward tug of Ann's mouth told him she was more than just tempted. 

He jostled her with an elbow and extended a hand out to the caravan leader. They'd be working for these people for a year. It'd be better to play nice.

"I'm Carver," he said.

"You'll do nicely," she said giving him an approving smirk before turning to his sister.

"And you, mage," she said, "Now you're something impressive."

Ann held her hand out in turn.

"Call me Hawke," she said.

"What?" Carver shot her a look, which she ignored.

She wanted to be known as Hawke. Ann was laying an individual claim to their family name. All of a sudden it felt like she swallowed him.

He saw flashes, of an imaginary future. Ann carving swaths on the battlefield, intimidating drug lords, rising in the undercity, attracting people to her like flies to honey.

Ann would be Ann, do great things, better than him- even the caravan leader knew she was better in the one battle they had fought together- and all anyone would know of him was that he was a Hawke, brother to The Hawke.

"Hawke," the caravan leader said with an approving nod. "Very Fereldan."

"It's my name too," Carver wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat.

"Hire better guards next time," Ann said. "Now are we going to get moving or what?"

\---

When they returned to Kirkwall, they did it in silence.

Carver stewed, the question on his tongue as stifling as the heat of the city.

They had rounded the corner into the older part of the city slums, only a few blocks from Gamlen’s house when Ann caught his arm.

“Spit it out,” she said. “Something’s bothering you.”

“Why are you calling yourself Hawke?” he blurts out.

Ann blinked. Whatever she was expecting she wasn’t expecting that.

“Why?” she demanded, “Is it a problem?”

It was always so impossible to talk to her when she got defensive.

“It’s my name too!” Carver said hotly, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re just- just- taking it for yourself. Like you’re the most important person in this family.”

Ann laughed, and not kindly.

“Carver!” she exclaimed, “You’re literally the only one who thinks like that. You wanna be Hawke? Then go be Hawke, I’m not stopping you.”

“I don’t want to be Hawke,” he yelled. “I want you to be Ann and for me to be Carver.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be Ann.” she retorted, “Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass for a second, you’d see that it’s not about you!”

“But it’s all about you, huh?” he said.

“You’re the one coming after me for what I want to call myself,” Ann said, crossing her arms and giving him her worst wintry glare.

“Then why do you want to be Hawke?” he exclaimed.

Ann didn’t answer him right away. Instead she pursed her lips and looked him over. Carver hated that look- she was judging him to be worthy of her secrets. Ann was still so much of an enigma to him. Beth always could judge her moods better than he could.

The thought of his twin made him wince. Her loss was still an open wound.

Something must have shown on his face because something on Ann’s softened.

“Look,” she began, “We’re in a new place, with a different family name. Mother’s been grating about her lost legacy, and well.”

Ann looked away and swallowed.

“I didn’t want to leave Bethany and Father behind,” she said softly, “Even if it’s something as small as carrying them in my name.”

It was weird hearing her sound almost.. vulnerable. Ann the eldest, the strongest, the most capable and bravest. Carver wondered if she talked to Bethany like that, and if Ann was only telling him this because she was gone.

“Besides, you know I always hated my name,” she said in a more normal voice.

Carver snorted. That was an understatement. As a kid she used to start fights with anyone who called her ‘Annabelle.’ It was the easiest way to earn a bit of frost in his bed.

He had to admit the short bluntness of their family name fit her better than Annabelle.

“I’m still gonna call you Ann,” he said, sounding more defensive than he meant, “It’d be weird calling you Hawke.”

Ann rolled her eyes.

“Well duh,” she said, “You’re a Hawke too.”

It was that, more than anything else she said, that made him feel better.

“Now come on. We’d better head in before the gangs come out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written a complete fanfiction in years and finally Dragon Age has dragged me off to the writing desk. I feel a little rusty, but i also as though writing this will be a bit of an adventure.


	2. Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He made a mistake. Too eager, he supposed, to end Danarius to even notice he was asking help from a mage.
> 
> Hawke was helpful, yes, but she was also a mage, a tempest of hail and lighting. Fenris wasn't terribly sure whether or not he should let this mage any further into his life.

_Mage._

The first blast of lightning from her fingers sent an ache trembling through his tattoos. His mouth felt dry, but it arced, not at him, but from shade to shade.

He made a mistake. Too eager, he supposed, to end Danarius to even notice he was asking help from a mage.

Heat shook the air. A burning hand reached through the floor at his feet. He jumped to the side as a demon emerged, spinning as he struck as hard as he could.

Fenris grit his teeth.

"Danarius!" He roared. "Send all the demons you want, you coward, but you will never stop me!"

A blast of ice froze it, slowing the living inferno into a glowing ember.

Fenris glanced back at the mage, her eyes a cold fury so intense he wondered for a moment if she were not the reason for the rage demons.

He ignores the thought, and smashes his pommel into the petrified demon with all his strength.

It was too late now.

Danarius was his priority and he needed help to get to him. He'd take whatever this Hawke woman could give, never mind he'd be in debt to a mage.

If she turned untrustworthy and sold him to the slavers, then he’d consider his debt paid, and take care of the matter in the way he wasn't able deal with Danarius in Seheron.

\----

It was just a trap.

The room was dusty, unoccupied for a number of days at least. His information was wrong.

He wasn't there.

The coward had laid a trap and hoped that he'd lay down and die.

Fenris gulped. The air felt too thin to breathe.

He said something to the mage and her friends; he couldn't quite remember what- and found himself outside.

It was a quiet night, the heat of the day leeching off with the evening breeze. Fenris leaned heavily against the wall outside the door and closed his eyes, listening for a moment to the murmurs of the city.

Kill Danarius. Repay the mage. Be on his way.

That was the plan, at least, before that particular rug got yanked from under him. What was he going to do now?

He was tired of running. Danarius always managed to find him, and as long as he was alive, Fenris would have to run and run and run.

Pursuing Danarius was tempting, but walking into another trap would be too easy, when his own information could so very clearly fail him.

No, he would issue a challenge and fight on his own terms. Staying in the mansion would suit his needs. If Danarius wanted his property back, he would be welcome to try.

Fenris ran his tongue across his teeth as he fantasized about taking hold of his former master's heart.

Then there was the matter with the mage. Hawke.

She was.. trustworthy, for a mage.

She had taken a job meant to aid templars and told him he needn't have tricked her for her help. Anso had told him the name Hawke appeared in Kirkwall about a year ago. She was unlikely to be in league with Danarius as a sort of extended con.

She was Fereldan too- a land that disliked slavery. He could believe the anger he saw in the mansion was directed at the practice of slavery and the escape of a man who practiced it.

And she was powerful.

When Danarius came for him, she'd be a valuable ally.

But she was still a mage.

She'd have questions for him. And he did for her, if he was going to extend a tentative hand for some sort of alliance.

He'd have to choose his words carefully.

He was still thinking about it when the mansion door opened.

Quickly, he arranged himself on the pillar, folding his arms and staring off into the darkness.

“It never ends,” he said, as the sound of scraping boots approached, “I escaped a land of dark magic only for it to hound me at every turn. And now I find myself in the company of yet another mage.”

He turned towards the mage, eyes boring into hers. She returned his gaze levelly.

“I saw you casting spells in there,” he said. “I should have realized sooner what you really were.”

He spoke the words carefully, watchful as a duelist before the first strike. He was aware, that his choice of words might set her on edge but it was hard to approach the issue delicately. If they were to work together it was best she knew exactly where he stood.

“Hey, you have a problem with my sister, you got a problem with me,” the warrior- Carver- said, stepping forward with a frown.

The mage waved him down, face impassive, but said nothing. Fenris continued.

“Tell me then,” he said, “What manner of mage are you? What is it you seek?”

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” she said finally, “But what I want is what anyone wants; a better future.”

“Something you will no doubt fight for,” he noted. “Mages with desires are dangerous.”

“As though you don’t have desires yourself.” She leveled a calm glare back at him, a challenge.

“As though the power mages hold don’t make them more dangerous.”

That earned him a reaction, however subtle. Narrowed eyes, the thin tug of a frown, the almost imperceptible dip of a chin.

“As if I didn’t know that.”

A small ripple of mana washed over him and disappeared quickly. It was involuntary, he guessed, defensive rather than aggressive, but he still had to suppress a shudder. She was angry, but it wasn't just about him, he could tell.  He should probably stop pushing.

He could stay with her for the time being. She was interesting.

Hawke was her name, right? Hawke was trustworthy... for a mage.

He broke eye contact, dipped his head in a shallow bow- a customary show of submission, and paid her for her trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you two were going duel it out right then and there,” Varric said, with a chuckle. “That tension was so thick I could have probably bludgeoned it a few times without making a dent.”
> 
> Hawke did not laugh.


	3. Blood and Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill’s jaw dropped open. Of all the things she thought Hawke might say, that was certainly the furthest thing from mind! 
> 
> Meeting Hawke was a milestone, a turning point, that much was certain, though Merrill was unsure what the future would hold. Though she lost many things in her move to Kirkwall, Hawke may just turn out to be worth it.

There were two barriers in front of her, Merrill thought giddily.

One that was magical, and one that was social.

"I can open the way forward," she assured her companions. “One moment.”

Well, she hoped she sounded reassuring.

Taking a deep breath, and aware of the eyes on her, she took her small knife and opened her wrist.

Blood spurted everywhere, full of life, and Merrill dove into that power, hurling it at the barrier and calling upon the Beyond.

The spirit broke the barrier, and Merrill returned it home. It was nice and tidy, except for the blood really.

"That was blood magic," Hawke said. Her voice sounded like ice. "You called a spirit here from the Fade."

"What?" her brother exclaimed. "Are you insane?"

Merrill drew herself up, wrapping her fingers around her bleeding wrist.

"I'm perfectly sane, thank you very much," Merrill snapped. "I know how to protect myself. I know what I'm doing."

Hawke didn't say anything but she stepped forward. She was frowning but Merrill held her ground.

"The spirit went back didn't it?" She babbled on and on, trying to sound defiant. "I'm fine, I'm not possessed. The passage is open isn’t it? Everything is okay!"

Hawke was right in front of her now. Merrill watched her warily.

"Give me your hand," she said.

"What?"

Hawke raised an eyebrow, nostrils flaring impatiently. Meekly, Merrill stretched an arm out.

Hawke sighed quietly and reached for her other wrist, the injured one, with surprisingly gentle fingers.

Her hand flared white for a second and the pain faded. Merrill felt the Fade shuffle itself around her. She was a spirit healer.

Oh, well, that must have made all her babbling look awfully stupid.

"Yes it did," Hawke replied, and Merrill realized she must have said that out loud.

"Oh whoops," Merrill said, laughing nervously and tried to take her arm back.

Hawke didn't let go, her grip firmer on her wrist.

"Don't hurt yourself to get what you want," she said quietly. “You’re going to regret it.”

Merrill yanked her arm back.

“I know what I’m doing,” she said, “Thank you, really. But I do know what I’m doing.”

Hawke’s mouth curled into a frown.

“Fine,” she said curtly, “Let’s get this over with.”

Merrill nodded quickly then lead them all into the graveyard.

\-----

Moving into the alienage was a strange and unnerving experience.

Kirkwall was loud and there were so many people! She’d never even seen anything like this before and here she was, moving in. 

Merrill set a box in the little hovel. She only had a few things- Hawke carried in another two boxes. That would be it, except for-

“Maker what is this thing!” Carver staggered under the weight of the covered eluvian.

“Oi, Junior,” Varric grunted. “Lower your end a bit will ya? You’re too tall for me to be doing this with you.”

“Oh sorry,” he snapped in reply, “Didn’t know my height was such a burden to you.”

Varric rolled his eyes, but Carver did lower his end of the mirror.

“Be careful with that please!” Merrill said and ran over to help Varric with his side.

Together they shuffled into the house and groaning, set the mirror down in the corner of her new home.

“Seriously Merrill, what is that thing?” Carver asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

She hesitated for a moment.

These people didn’t really like blood magic, or at least Hawke and her brother didn’t. Well, it wasn’t like she had to tell the whole truth.

Merrill walked over to the mirror and cut away the strings that bound the cloth to the mirror.

She heard a series of gasps behind her as the cover fell away.

It looked just as it always did. The cracked glass was foggy as ever. The wooden vines wrapped around it shone in the fire light as though it was made of tarnished gold and the carved moldings wrapped from the top to the back. The goat figure perched on top suffered no damage from the move which pleased Merrill. 

She smiled and turned around. Varric and Carver looked dumbfounded. Hawke didn’t but then again it was kind of hard to read Hawke.

“Isn't it beautiful?” she exclaimed, “It's an eluvian. The elves of Arlathan used to use them to communicate across Thedas. It doesn’t work or anything, but it’s a part of Dalish history.”

Merrill ran her hand along the side of the mirror, thinking about its bloody past, and her plans for it.

“It’s very valuable and very old, so thank you all for helping me carry it down the mountain,” she said with a nod.

Carver bent backwards and groaned as his back cracked audibly.

“Well my back will remember it!” he said. Varric grinned and smacked him hard on the back.

Hawke looked thoughtful, her brow furrowed and eyeing the mirror. She said, however, nothing, so Merrill busied herself with making the alienage hovel her new home.

Varric left first, explaining he had an “appointment” at the Hanged Man in twenty minutes. Carver left a little before dark.

“Ann, are you coming?” he had asked.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” Hawke said absently. Carver only shrugged and disappeared.

Merrill jumped as the door swung shut. Being alone with Hawke made her nervous. She was so put together and strong and confident- Merrill couldn’t help but look up to her- but Hawke didn’t like blood magic and well, she was a blood mage.

“Merrill.” Hawke said.

Merrill turned around a little too quickly.

“Yes, Hawke?” she said. “Can I get you something to drink? I have... water.”

Hawke gave another little sigh. Did that mean she was disappointed? Exasperated?

“Merrill,” she said again, in a notably patient tone. “That mirror isn’t just a relic, is it?”

Merrill fiddled with her fingers, caught in her half truths.

“Er, well, no, it’s a very old magical artifact,” she said, “It may be responsible for a few disappearances, and probably deaths.”

“My friend, Tamlen disappeared when he touched it about a year ago,” she hurried on, “At first I was just trying to get it to work so I could save him, but now…. Well, now he’s probably dead. But I still want to try and get this to work. This eluvian is a piece of Dalish history! We’ve lost so much already and this mirror could tell us so much about how we used to be.”

“This is the reason why you had to leave the clan, isn’t it,” Hawke said quietly. “It’s dangerous.”

Oh, she was so clever! Merrill wished she could tell what Hawke was thinking and nodded.

“And you’re planning on restoring it with blood magic,” she finished. She sounded disappointed.

“Yes.” Merrill said more firmly than she felt. “It needs a lot of power, and I don’t exactly have piles of lyrium lying around. I used what I had. I’m not hurting anyone, and I’ve already made sure the mirror is safe. Mostly.”

Hawke sighed, yet again.

“I’ve already tested it out,” Merrill rambled on, really wishing she knew what Hawke’s sighs meant. “I purified a shard of eluvian with blood magic with no repercussions.”

“Except that you used blood magic,” Hawke said.

“Blood magic is not inherently evil,” she retorted, “It’s magic. Just like any other.”

She stood there for a moment, jutting a chin out and glaring at Hawke.

She glared back, eyes narrowed, mouth disapproving. Then, Hawke looked away and sighed.

“Look,” she said slowly, as though she might regret it. “I’ll help you with the mirror.”

Merrill’s jaw dropped open. Of all the things she thought Hawke might say, that was certainly the furthest thing from mind! A human, offering to help restore Dalish history? It was mindboggling.

Hawke held up two fingers.

“I have two conditions,” she said.

Merrill swallowed her shock and nodded mutely.

“One. No blood magic,” Hawke said. “Two. No demons.”

Merrill frowned.

“But without those, we wouldn’t have the power to-”

Hawke waved away her concerns.

“I know where the lyrium smugglers run,” she said, “If we need the power, we can go rob them blind.”

Hawke smiled, or attempted one. It was an unfamiliar expression on her face and Merrill stifled a giggle.

“I don’t know much about the Dalish, but maybe another mage will be more useful than a demon,” she said, “Those are my two conditions. Maker help you if you break them.”

Merrill thought about it for a moment.

There was nothing wrong with using blood magic, or making deals with demons, but also she had to admit those were last resorts.

If Hawke could fulfill the role that Keeper Marethari had refused to play… this was probably the best option.

“Alright,” she said, stretching out a hand. “I accept your terms.”

Hawke sighed again, but this time Merrill could tell it was one of relief. Oh, she hoped she hadn’t concerned Hawke too much. She really needn’t worry about her, and they had only just met. But it was awfully sweet of her.

Hawke walked over and shook her hand firmly.

“Very well,” she said, “I will be over tomorrow to have a closer look at the mirror.”

“You don’t want to start now?” Merrill asked.

Hawke shook her head.

“It’s getting late,” she said, “My family will probably fuss.”

“Oh,” Merrill said, flustered. “Yes, of course, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

The small smile that graced Hawke’s lips as she head out the door was much more natural than her first. It lit up her whole face. Merrill couldn’t truthfully say that Hawke was beautiful, but when she smiled like that, she could have watched her forever.

The door shut quietly behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why can't I leave this stuff well enough alone," Hawke grumbled as she head out into the streets of Lowtown.


	4. Severance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wasn’t quite sure what to make of her. It wasn’t every day that he met another apostate mage, much less one demanding entrance into the Deep Roads and accompanied by a tattooed elf, red haired guardswoman, and a beardless dwarf. He wasn't even sure that he'd ever seen a beardless dwarf before. 
> 
> Hawke was unusual- an aggressive spirit healer, an apostate who balked at freeing mages, and he didn't know how she'd next defy his expectations for her.

Anders was elbows deep in a healing when they came in.

The boy was suffering from a severe dust allergy. It took careful work to ease the foreign particles from his lungs. Justice hovered at the edge of his senses, watching for demons as he focused his attention on the delicate work. 

Lungs expanded, and the boy breathed again. The mother--Helena, that was her name--burst into tears as he opened his eyes. Anders sat back and sighed with relief.

“Thank you, healer,” she sobbed, grabbing her child. “Thank the Maker you were here.”

He smiled wearily at her. The Maker would not thank him for his presence, he was certain, but he’d not abuse her notions of gratitude. He hoped they’d would manage to get out of Darktown. That dust allergy would only get worse down here.

He glanced at the newcomers, scanning them for injuries. Not Darktown natives, not with the way they were dressed and certainly not with-- was that a city guard in tow?

Justice flashed behind his eyes before he suppressed it. It was better not announce his status as a possessed mage. Besides, it would scare his patients. 

Anders grabbed his staff off the wall behind him and brandished it at the party.

“I have made this a place a sanctum of healing and salvation,” he said, “Why do you threaten it?" 

Looking at them, he realized how ragtag they really were. Sure, they had a city guard, but there was also an elf, dressed in pointy leather armor with tattoos winding around his arms, a beardless dwarf (he didn’t think he’d ever seen a beardless dwarf before), and they led by someone who appeared to be an apostate mage. Hardly standard issue.

“I’m want to know about the Deep Roads,” she said.

“What do you want those for?” he asked, surprised. “Are you here to take me back to the Grey Wardens? I’m not going back. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat.”

“Your cat,” the mage said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, my cat,” Anders said, drawing himself up. “Ser Pounce-a-lot. I got him from a friend. He was a noble beast."

Scoffing, the mage shook her head.

“Whatever, I don’t care,” she said. “I just need to know how to get into the Deep Roads.”

What did they want? A guide? Just because he used to be a warden didn’t mean he was raring to go back into those awful tunnels. Besides, he had things he needed to do in Kirkwall proper.

“I’m not interested in--” He stopped. They wanted something from him. Maybe he could ask something of them as well.

“A favor for a favor,” he said, “Sound fair?”

The other mage narrowed her eyes.

“What is this deal of yours?” she asked, “I want to know what it is before I decide to shoot it down.”

“I came to Kirkwall to aid a… um, a friend,” Anders said, “A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows. Somehow the templars learned of my plans to free him. I have a warden map of the depths of this area. Help me break him out and you’ll get it.”

A fleeting mix of emotions crossed the other mage’s face--most of them unpleasant. Ander’s heart sunk.

“Help him escape the Circle,” she said carefully. “That’s a little… controversial.”

His temper flared. If anyone deserved freedom it was Karl.

“You’re an apostate, aren’t you?” he demanded. “You would deny another mage the freedom you currently enjoy?”

“Some mages need containment,” she retorted, “We’re not all so friendly as to start clinics and heal the poor.”

“That doesn’t mean we deserve to be locked up in prisons and turned Tranquil at the smallest of offenses,” Anders snapped back.

"Yes, and letting mages have free reign is a much better idea," the elf said. Anders glared daggers at him and opened his mouth to yell, just as a couple of men burst into the clinic, yelling for the healer and supporting another between them. 

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said instead, and rushed off to help him to a bed. He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead and his head lolled.

Kneeling at the head of the bed, he placed his glowing blue fingers against his patient’s bloody temples.

“He’s going to be okay,” he told the patient’s friends. “He shouldn’t move around too much for the next week though.”

A soft cough reminded he still had guests.

He glanced up at them, without stopping the pulse of healing energy into the man's body.

“Right,” Anders said, “Where was I?”

“You were going to give us your warden map to the Deep Roads,” the dwarf said helpfully.

Anders narrowed his eyes.

“Actually, I think I was about to say something along the lines of, ‘Either you help me or you don’t get the maps,” he snapped.

It might not cost him much to just give them the maps, but he needed some sort of contingency plan when rescuing Karl. He planned on doing it by himself from the start, but there was so much that could go wrong.

How could he pass up an opportunity that would make Karl safer?

"Well?" he asked, before turning back to his unconscious patient, wiping blood absently off his forehead with his thumbs.

“We can find our own way through the Deep Roads,” she said.

“Hawke,” the dwarf said, “We need those maps.”

 Anders glanced up. So her name was Hawke. She was glaring at the dwarf who looked up at her reproachfully.

“Hawke.”

She sighed exasperatedly. 

“Fine,” she said. “We need those maps. What’s the plan?”

\-----

 

“Anders, what did you do?” Karl asked, “It’s like you brought a piece of the Fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like.”

It had to be Justice. Anders felt a lump in his throat. Justice wasn’t the Fade, and it wouldn’t be permanent.

“You cannot imagine it,” Karl said, seizing his hand. “All of the colors, all the music in this world; gone. Please, kill me, before I forget again! I don’t know how you brought it back, but whatever it was it’s fading!” 

Anders reached out, trailing his fingers along his old lover's cheek.

“Karl,” he whispered, voice cracking, “No.”

A hand touched his wrist. He looked down and saw Hawke had taken their clasped hands into hers. 

She took a deep breath and he felt the Fade shuffle around her. She was a spirit healer, he noticed, surprised. She didn’t seem the type.

“What are you--” He fell silent.

He felt her mana pick at the piece of Fade that was quickly slipping away, felt her reach for what was left of Karl. She was trying to stitch him a connection to the Fade.

Anders held his breath and tried to concentrate on the Fade, to keep it as long as possible, at least long enough for Hawke to finish her experiment.

But it was slipping away. Despite his best efforts, the Fade was disappearing, the spell was unraveling.

“No,” Karl choked out, “Do it, Anders, do it now!”

And it was over.

Karl was gone.

He straightened, looked at him with dead eyes, and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Anders barely noticed Hawke letting them go and stepping back. He pulled out his belt knife and hesitated.

"It was his decision," Hawke said quietly.

He almost wished Karl hadn't asked it of him, but what sort of coward would he be not to fulfill his last request?

"I’m so sorry." Anders whispered, “I came too late.”

He pushed his belt knife between Karl's ribs. He gasped and jerked on the blade before falling limp. Anders let him collapse.

Turning quickly, he strode off.

“You and him,” Hawke said, “You were...”

He nodded once.

"We better go before more templars come," he said, voice low.

If he stayed to mourn, he wasn't sure he'd be able to move by morning.

\-------

 

"Talk," she said. "What was the glowing about?"

“It’s...hard to explain,” Anders said.

The last thing he wanted to do was explain his unique circumstances to a couple of mage haters and one of the city guard.

Hawke may have tried to heal Karl, but he hadn't forgotten she would have ditched him if not for the maps.

But it was something to talk about that wasn’t Karl, so he’d take it.

"When I was Amaranthine, I met a spirit of Justice," he said slowly. "We became friends, and he recognized the injustice that mages in Thedas go through every day."

Hawke was expressionless. 

“Get on with it,” she said. “Say what you need to say.”

Anders sighed and continued.

“To live outside the Fade, he needed a host,” he said. “I volunteered. But something changed when he came inside me. I had too much anger, and he was no longer my friend Justice, but a being of Vengeance.

“You’re an abomination,” the elf said, lip curling in a snarl. Hawke nodded, barely able to keep a look of revulsion off her face.

“So that’s how you were able to bring the Fade into this world,” she said.

“He’s not a demon!” Anders retorted, “Just as some spirits align themselves with concepts like pride and desire, there are those that align themselves with our virtues, compassion. Justice."

“And not Vengeance?” she asked, almost innocently.

Anders opened his mouth, but then closed it again. The line between him and Justice were so blurred as to be invisible. Could he honestly say that his human desire for revenge was not also Justice’s?

“Look,” Hawke said, “All I need is your maps.”

He sighed. Anders stepped back and reached behind a box of empty poultice bottles and took out a sheaf of paper.

“Well,” he said, handing them over. “Here they are.”

She took them, scanning them with a nod of approval before handing the maps over to the dwarf.

“Thank you,” she said, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Anders called after her, and Hawke turned.

“I didn’t thank you,” he said slowly, “For what you did for Karl.”

Hawke looked away sharply.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, “It didn’t work, and I regret doing it.”

Anders couldn’t quite catch the rapid shift of emotions on her face.

“What did you do?” the elf asked.

“She tried to heal his tranquility,” Anders said. “It was a noble effort. So. If you need assistance on your expedition, I would be willing to lend my particular expertise. If you would have me along at all.”

“I suppose,” Hawke said slowly, “It might be useful to have a Grey Warden along.”

She almost seemed ashamed of her attempt to heal tranquility. He couldn’t quite fathom it. Forcing mages to be Tranquil was the biggest stain on the face of the Circle. And yet she must have felt some compassion for Karl, for her to try at all, even on a compulsion.

Anders felt a small bud of hope.

Maybe he could get her to see that mages didn’t deserve the treatment they got.

Maybe she would help him could work on a cure for Tranquility. Maybe some good would come of this after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If you healed the man," Aveline said, "The templars would have orders to kill you on sight. Be careful."
> 
> "I failed and he died," Hawke said. "They're never going to know, and I'm never going to do it again."


	5. Bar Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver was really much too tense lately. It was a miracle that he managed to smile at all these days. Maybe some good old bar talk and alcohol would help him loosen up a little.
> 
> Varric thumped him on the back and settled next to him with a drink of his own.

Varric set two pitchers of ale on the table, tossed an empty tankard at Carver and poured himself a measure.

“It’s on my tab, Junior,” he said, “So drink it up.”

Carver groaned and poured himself a drink.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he said.

Varric chuckled.

“I can talk my way through anything, kid.” he said. “Don’t be surprised.”

Carver stared straight down the barrel of his tankard.

“Hanged Man ale has got to be made with piss,” he said, before he lifted it to his lips and downed half of it.

“Wahoo!” Varric cheered, clapping an arm on his shoulder. “That a boy. You gotta loosen up, Junior, before you freeze into a statue.”

The boy was really much too tense lately. It was a miracle that he managed to smile at all these days. Varric thumped Carver on the back and settled next to him with a drink of his own.

“So. It's time for the little brother to dish out some dirt," he said. "What's Ann short for?"

Carver nearly spit out his drink.

"She knows where I sleep, you know." He shot Varric a dirty look. "I'm not telling you anything."

Varric laughed.

"That bad huh?" He said, "I wonder what could it be? Annalise? Annabeth? Anastasia?"

"If that's the reason you're buying me drinks I'm out of here," Carver grumbled, moving to stand.

"Woah woah," Varric said, pulling him back down. "I'm just teasing, Junior. I thought you'd enjoy taking the piss outta your sister. I'm a younger brother too, remember?"

"Yeah but your older brother can't freeze your sheets for a week."

"Fair enough," Varric said. "But you need to relax some! Complain about your sister! She won't find out about it from me. Dwarf's honor."

Carver eyed him for a moment, then took another drink.

"Well," Carver said. "I don't want to talk about my sister right now. I'd rather get drunk."

"Alright then," Varric said, nodding agreeably, "Then I'll tell you about the crap I pulled that drove my brother completely insane."

Carver chuckled at that.

“Alright I’ll take you up on that,” he said, throwing back the rest of his glass and pouring himself another drink.

“Okay so, I was born in Kirkwall, but my brother was born in Orzammar, right? Now in that great underground city, they’re afraid of the sky. Remember Anso? He was afraid of falling into it and my brother was exactly the same...”

\------

Carver was well and truly drunk now, having made it through two pitchers by himself, and laughing much too loudly.

Isabela had joined them too, inviting herself over for drinks on his tab. Varric rolled his eyes and promised her that he’d win back the money at the next game of Wicked Grace.

“No it’s totally true,” Carver swore, shaking his tankard at the two of them, sloshing a bit of ale on himself. “The poor fool ran out straight in front of King Cailan without even his smalls, yelling as the bees attacked him! He was in the medic’s tent for a week bleeding the poison from his feet.”

“I never knew you were a soldier,” Varric said. “You were at Ostagar, huh?”

Isabela trailed her fingers up Carver’s arms.

“Oo,” she cooed, “What’s a big strong soldier like you running around Lowtown with us rogues anyway?”

He yelped as she squeezed something from out of Varric’s view. He casually took a sip of his drink.

“Hey stop that!” Carver said, smacking her hand away. Isabela only grinned, completely insincere in any of her affections.

“I’m only here because Aveline doesn’t want me in the guard,” he said, then downs the rest of his tankard. “then says I should find a trade!”

“The only trade you’re going to find here is the sort that Aveline doesn’t approve of,” Isabela said, producing a wallet.

“Hey!” Carver said, and snatched it back, glaring. 

Varric chuckled, and took another sip, mentally thumbing through his contacts. Maybe he could pull a few strings to help a kid out.

"You'd have a difficult time finding any good work," he said. "Especially with the flood of Fereldan refugees."

“Exactly!” he said, “No one’s gonna take a Fereldan apprentice and I’m only good at fighting. I don’t know where Aveline gets off on telling me to ‘find a trade’ when she keeps me out of the guard! The only thing left is the templars!”

Suddenly Carver threw his tankard at the table. The wooden cup bounced high, falling easily back into Varric’s hand. He handed it back to him and put a hand on Carver’s shoulder.

“Woah, easy there, Junior,” Varric said, “Don't worry. After the expedition, you'll be rolling in coin.”

"Stop calling me that,” he snapped, snatching back his tankard, “Junior to what, junior to Ann, huh? Goddamn it, I can’t walk a step without someone comparing how I walk to her.”

“Alright alright,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “It’s your night tonight, Carver.”

“The only thing I’m doing now is running around behind my sister, getting into trouble,” he said bitterly, “I might as well run around on my own and get in trouble that way.”

Isabela chuckled and shook her head.

“You wouldn’t want to do that, kid,” she said, “If you can’t get out of a pinch, who’d you think end up saving your ass, huh?”

Carver groaned.

“My sister,” he said, “She’s always protecting me. She’s the apostate. I’m the one who’s supposed to be protecting her.”

Carver grabbed the pitcher and upended the rest of the ale into his tankard.

“She doesn’t even need me anymore,” he said, “Picking up all of these other people. She's got you guys and another couple of apostates. She’s practically adopted that elf. That really cute elf."

He furrowed his brow and thought about his words for a moment.

"Merrill," he added. "Not Fenris.”

Varric sniggered.

“Aww, Broody is plenty adorable if you like the spikes and the glowing,” he said.

“Oh Fenris is definitely very cute,” Isabela drawled, “Cute enough for me to just want to eat him all the way up.”

Carver glared at them.

“Not helping,” he said, “I don’t know why I’m even telling you guys all this.”

“It’s the alcohol,” Isabela said, scooting up to sit on the table and twirling the empty pitcher by its handle, “It’s working its magic.”

She pointed at one of the barmaids and shouted, “Hey you! Get us some more ale.”

“Hey you got my word none of this would make it to Hawke,” Varric said, “Rivaini, you promise too.”

“What!” Isabela exclaimed, “And miss out on all this prime gossiping?”

Carver groaned and let his head fall on the table.


	6. Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, when Hawke first told them they were going to ambush lyrium smugglers, Fenris did not think it would involve stealing their stock and using it to fix the demon mirror.

Hawke always got them in the damnedest of places, Fenris thought as he braced himself up in the tiny rocky niche with a chattery blood-mage behind him.

"My legs are all cramped up," Merrill said. "I hope I don't fall over when the smugglers come."

"If you do," Fenris said, "you will quite likely die."

"You should try to look at the positive side of things," she admonished gently. "I think it's quite possible I'd live."

"That would be quite a pity."

"You know that's not very nice, Fenris, I think you might be-"

He tuned her out. He wished he could swap places with Isabela. At least Hawke could be quiet.

Somehow, when she first told them they were going to ambush lyrium smugglers, Fenris did not think it would involve stealing their stock and using it to fix the demon mirror.

A scuff of gravel caught his ear.

"Hush witch," he said, "they're coming."

"Oo, alright!" she whispered in return and fell silent.

Seven or eight of them and a wagon, judging by the sounds.

He imagined they were passing by Hawke and Isabela now; they were to cover any retreat and pick off stragglers while he and Merrill drew attention and dealt heavy damage.

He could just make out the hushed whispers of the smugglers as they rounded the corner and tensed, hand on sword.

Closer. Closer...

A masked body came into view and he sprung, barreling over the smuggler. Nine of them, he noticed, three dwarves and six humans.

"Ambush!" the foreman cried, unhooking a giant maul from his back.

One of humans drew his sword and shield; the second struggled with his weaponry and Fenris ran him through. The warrior lowered his shield and rushed. Fenris flashed blue, and leapt forwards and rolled, away from the blow. 

The dwarves had drawn their weapons--an axe and double daggers. Fenris swept low, at dwarven legs. Metal rang as the blade crashed against the warrior's poleyn and threw him off balance. The rogue was quick enough to disappear.

Merrill erupted to his side from the earth itself, vines coming to life as she hurled a stone fist at his dwarven attacker, throwing him to the ground. A tendril snapped around the human warrior’s waist and tossed him aside with a crash.

A twang snapped through the air as an arrow sank into his thigh.

Fenris stumbled and glanced around for the source. The dwarf in the cart had a bow. He broke off the arrow shaft in a quick movement and dove forward as she sent a second arrow loose.  
The foreman ran at him, maul raised, when lighting shot him from behind. He fell with a clunk and twitched. Hawke was here.

“Another mage!” cried the dwaven archer twisting to aim for Hawke. “Behind us!”

Something fearful caught in Fenris’ throat and he threw himself to his feet. Dagger tips dug up into the leather in his back, near his kidneys. Hawke shouted something and cold air burst past him. He ignored it, and slammed into the cart.

The archer lost her balance and slipped, landing in a crouch but the arrow going awry.  She whipped another arrow from the quiver and drew it back on her bow, just as he sliced upward, nearly cleaving through the cart in two and scattering lyrium dust everywhere.

Power ripped through his skin as the fine dust resonated with his active markings. The voices of the Fade thrummed loudly, wordless in his head, louder than any conscious noise. He staggered, only partially conscious of the heavy pulses of spirit energy emanating from him.

The glowing dust stuck to him, and he clawed at patches of bare skin on his arms. The points of his gauntlets drew rivulets of blood that carried off bits of the lyrium until suddenly the glow faded and he could hear again.

“-ris! Fenris!” Hawke was in front of him, with her hands braced against his waist. He looked down and blinked, confused, then looked up and that saw she had pushed him away from the splash of lyrium dust.

“Hawke,” he said, his voice strangely hoarse, and uncurled. He scooped up her wrists with his gauntlets and pushed her gently away. He felt stiff and numb and full of needles prickling his skin.

“Oh what a relief,” Merrill said from behind him, and let go of his belt. He realized the smaller mage had grabbed it and helped drag him backwards. “I thought you’d never stop doing that glowy thing.”

His arms stung but he paid them no mind. Looking up, he saw that everyone else, the lyrium smugglers and Isabela were laying motionless across the floor. He hoped she wasn’t dead.

“It must have been the lyrium,” Hawke said. “Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have made you come.”

Fenris shook his head slowly.

“I did not know,” he said. “I have never come into contact with any lyrium besides these markings before.”

Hawke gestured towards his arms.

“You did quite a number on yourself,” she said softly. “Do you want me to heal that?”

He recoiled as if she struck him.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. Maker, even his neck was tender. “No magic.”

Hawke nodded, and rubbed her wrists.

“Oh, Fenris, here,” Merrill said, and handed him a roll of bandages. “I can’t heal like Hawke or Anders so I have to use these when I get too close to the kittens in the marketplace and their mother is there.”

She dug in her satchel and produced a small vial of salve as well, shoving it in his hands as well.

“Use this too,” she said. “Just elfroot in here. No magic, I swear.”

He accepted them with only a nod of thanks. Merrill beamed and he could only manage mere disgruntledness.

“Go home and rest,” Hawke said. “It’s a bad idea for you to try and move the lyrium anyway.”

He could only nod dumbly, clutching the medicine Merrill had given him, before turning around and limping home.

\---

That night, Fenris got profoundly drunk.

The prickling in his skin only got worse as the numbness wore off. It had been easy enough to pluck out the arrowhead from his leg with a glowing hand and the elfroot numbed his wounds. There wasn't enough of it to slather all over his body, however, and everything chafed.

The skintight armor normally kept from irritating his markings but now even that put him in constant pain. So he peeled it off and removed his binder and headed for wine cellar.  
The alcohol dulled the pain, he found, and he had no shortage of either.

He wandered around from room to room, sword in one hand and bottle in the other in nothing but his smalls; the thought of sitting down was unbearable.

Why did he have to accept that damned mission?

Hawke asked him to and he had agreed readily, even when he found out he would be stealing lyrium for the demon mirror. He never liked to turn her down, when her support was the reason he could rest for more than a week.

He had lost his head, somehow, when he saw the arrow pointed at Hawke. It was a pointless gesture: it wasn't like she couldn't roast arrows in flight.  
Danarius would have flogged him had he let the arrow through, he realized. Danarius didn't have Hawke's precision.

He downed the rest of the bottle and stared at the label. Aggregio. Fenris hurled it at the wall with all his strength and it shattered into dust.    
When had he started fighting like Hawke was his master?

He needed more wine.

\--

Half a bottle later, he heard a knock on the door.

He froze, listening. Maybe it was a product of the drink, or his imagination.

The knock came again.

It would not be Danarius, or any of the hunters-- they didn't knock-- it would be the senechal, or perhaps one of Hawke's friends.

"Fenris?" he heard a muffled voice call. It was Hawke, to his surprise. This was probably because of what happened today.

Suddenly he was aware of his nakedness.

"Just a moment," he called back.  

He managed not to fall as he ran back to his corner in front of the fire. There was no way he could put his armor on in time, but he grabbed his binder and pulled it on, gritting his teeth as its edges pulled at his skin.

Hawke had given him some of Carver's old clothes when she found that he had nothing but his armor. It lay untouched, but now he grabbed a shirt on and pulled it on. He stuck his head through one of the sleeves twice, but eventually he managed to put it on properly. It fell halfway down his  thighs and brushed against his skin with every movement.

He found a pair of pants that had a drawstring and stuck one limb into the leg. He nearly tripped, crashing into the wall and struggled to pull up the mass of fabric. He grabbed the top of the pants and pulled it up all the way to his waist, and tied it off, after a few tries.

He walked to the door, trying to approach it in a straight line and threw it open.

"Uh, hi," she said. "Those are Carver's clothes."

Fenris nodded.

"Yes," he said. "You gave them to me."

Hawke blinked slowly and said, "I know, I've just never seen you wear them before."

"They are too large." Fenris scowled and tugged on the excess fabric. And they were irritating his markings.

"Can I come in?" Hawke asked, and he realized he was still blocking the door. He took a step backwards and tried not to fall over.

"Of course."

She stepped past him, and looked around. It was the first time she had been here since they tore through the place, killing demons and shades.

"Would you like some wine?" he asked, offering her the bottle.

She shook her head. "No thanks," she said, then looked at the bottle closer. "Did you drink all that right now? You stink of alcohol."

Fenris waved his arm vaguely at the glass shards in the corner.

"This among others," he said.

He grimaced, the movement of his arms brushing the fabric up against his skin.

Hawke caught it, and she pursed her lips and frowned.

"Are you alright, Fenris?" she asked.

"Yes," he said nodding vigorously, "I am perfectly fine."

"If you're trying to spare my feelings," she said. "Stop."

"I am not," Fenris snapped, "I am already wearing your brother's ridiculous clothing-- I am sparing my pride."

"Oh," she said. A moment passed and she frowned again. "But you're not perfectly fine."

"No, Hawke," he said. "I am not."

She furrowed her brow, looking confused and frustrated.

"And you are very drunk," she said.

"Yes," he agreed. "What is it exactly that you want, Hawke? Do you expect me to welcome you with a feast and a smile?"

"What, no!" She recoiled at the thought. Fenris felt a little abashed for suggesting that of her, then he decided he didn’t really care.

She took a deep breath.

“What I want,” she said, “is to help you. And you’re making it really damn difficult.”

Fenris blinked.

“Ah.” he said.

But Hawke wasn’t done.

“I would really like,” she said, as though she was forcing the words out, “is to be your friend, Fenris. I would love to be friends you and the rest of you assholes who seem to enjoy following me around Kirkwall and helping me out.”

Fenris blinked again, thrown off.

“I- I don’t dislike you, Hawke,” he said. “Are you not friends with everyone else?”

“So you mean you like me,” she said bluntly.

“Er yes,” he said. He thought so, at least. His feelings about Hawke were a tangled mess that he did not like to probe.

Her shoulders dropped and she took a breath of relief, her mana rippling out like unraveling silk and making him twitch.

“Well alright, thank you then,” she said. “As for the others, I know Merrill and Aveline like me and everyone is friends with Varric. I don’t know if Isabela does? She says all these sexual things and mocks me and threatens to leave but she always comes along when I ask her. Anders argues with me a lot, but he never talks about anything but mages. I’d really like to get to know him better.”

He snorted as she mentioned Anders.

“That mage is not worth your time or your efforts,” he said instead.

Hawke made a little irritated noise in the back of her throat.

“Of course he is,” she said. “You don’t know anything about him, how would you know?”

Then she sighed and looked away.

“And it is actually rather nice being around other mages again, even if we do disagree.”

Her sister, who died in the Blight, was a mage wasn’t she? And of course, her father was an apostate as well. He never thought of Hawke as a particularly lonely person, but it was obvious now that he barely knew her at all.

“But Fenris,” she said, looking back at him and holding his gaze, “will you let me help you or not?”

“I did not expect your help with Danarius,” he said, “and it is still difficult to believe your intentions.” Her face fell, and Fenris mused on it. “How exactly do you plan on helping?”

Hawke shrugged.

“I don’t know what you need,” she said.

Fenris looked at his hand, and squinted at it for awhile. The lyrium lines on his fingers swirled and twisted around them and looked as it always did. He had no idea what to tell Hawke.

“I don’t know either,” he said, looking back up at her.

She chuckled a little.

“Well we could just start with what’s wrong,” she said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know what Danarius did to me,” Fenris said scowling. “But my markings hurt, and after this afternoon they are much more sensitive.”

Hawke frowned, and gingerly took his hand, careful not to touch the visible lyrium. Her fingers were featherlight against his skin and tickled.

“He must have done something to keep the lyrium from killing you,” she said frowning. “Perhaps those protections weren’t enough to keep them from hurting.”

“The pulses of spirit energy you released today were much stronger than the ones you usually use,” she said slowly, thinking. “Maybe you absorbed some energy from the lyrium dust and had to release it somehow. Perhaps the extra sensitivity is due to an overload of power. You could be able to ease some of that load by releasing more spirit pulses.”

Fenris took back his hand.

“Those are a lot of maybes,” he said.

Hawke nodded.

“I can’t be more sure than that, unless I use magic,” she said.

“No magic.”

Hawke nodded. “No magic.”

"Well," Fenris said. "I believe this is worth a shot. You should step back a little further though."

Hawke did, jogging back a few steps. She should be fine. Neither she nor Merrill were knocked out when he came into contact with the lyrium dust.

He hoped he could muster the pulse when he was this drunk.

He took a deep breath and gathered the familiar energy with a mental fist. His control was not quite as good as usual and his markings flickered uncertainly as Hawke watched.

All he was doing was bleeding off power. He didn’t need to be precise.

He squeezed till the magic burst from his skin, knocking over the table and the wine, and blowing around Hawke’s robes.

“Does it feel any better?” she asked.

Fenris lifted up his arm experimentally, letting the excess cloth drifting his skin. It still grated, but it wasn't as bad as it was before.

"Yes," he said. "I shall do it again."

The pulse was steadier this time, more focused, and it sent the table careening into the wall and knocked Hawke off her feet.

"Are you alright?" he said and stumbled over to her, leaning on the wall.

She pushed herself up and coughed, winded.

"Yeah," she said. "The intensity took me by surprise."

He held out a hand and she took it, hauling herself up and nearly tipping him over. He braced himself against the wall to keep from falling on her.

Hawke brushed off her robes, and looked him over.

"At least it's working, right?" she asked.

Fenris nodded.

"I believe I am about normal capacity now," he said, running a thumb over his knuckles. It felt like the normal prickles rather than the stabbing pain it had been.

"Good," she said, relieved. "Good. Is there anything else you need?"

Fenris shook his head.

"I don't believe so," he said.

"Well, I have something else for you," she said, and pulled out a book.

He recognized it; she had found it in a sack in the alienage on night and had looked at him oddly before moving on.

"You... you found that two weeks ago," he said. "Have you been carrying that around the entire time?"

"Yes," she said bluntly. "I couldn't figure out a good time to give it to you, but now seems to work."

He was strangely touched. She had thought of him, then skulked around for weeks before she could bear giving it to him. It was an endearing thought.

Fenris reached over and took it from her hands and looked down at it. The markings meant nothing to him. He back up at her. She looked expectantly back.

“Uh, Hawke,” he said. “I can’t read.” His lip curled and spat on the floor. “You don’t teach a slave how to read.”

“Oh,” she said. She was silent, and for half a moment, guilt flitted across her face. Then she said, “Well, it’s called the Book of Shartan. It was written by the elf that helped Andraste free the slaves. I thought you might like it.”

“I might have if I had any use for it,” Fenris said. He ran his thumb across the weathered cover of the book, bitterness curling in his mouth. “I have always wanted to know more about Shartan.”

There was something odd about receiving a book about slavery. Slavery deprived him of literacy, but connected him with the subject matter of the gift. He wondered if Hawke just thought of him as the runaway slave in her little posse.

“I’ll teach you to read then,” Hawke said matter-of-factly. “We can start whenever you feel like it.”

Fenris blinked at her, turning her words over in his head again, because he must have heard her wrong.

“You want to come to my dark and dirty home to teach me to read?” he asked. “You have better things to do.”

“I like your house,” she said. “It’s quiet here. But if you’d rather Aveline or Varric teach you, I’ll arrange it. I mean, you want to learn, right?”

He nodded slowly.

“Then one of us can teach you,” she said, and he couldn’t argue.

Aveline had a temper problem, but Varric might be a good teacher. Somehow he felt as though Hawke would be patient with him, mage or not.

”I believe you would make a good teacher,” he said. “I would be flattered that you would do so.”

She smiled a small smile and glanced away before recomposing herself.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “I’ll be over tomorrow at some point.”

Hawke was crazy. She had to be. She just swooped into his mansion, demanded to make his life better, then did. Wasn’t that what she always did? He never thought he’d be the focus of that attention.

"Hawke," he said. "Thank you."

She looked down and smiled. It was really rather cute and he resisted the urge to pat her on the head.

“I’m gonna go now,” Hawke said, pointing behind her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned and left without any more ceremony, leaving him leaning on the wall in her brother’s baggy clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, Fenris is trans.


	7. Sainthood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke had to be a saint. Some sort of prickly, unconventional saint, but a saint nonetheless.
> 
> She dragged them all around and outside of Kirkwall helping people, and even though Hawke put a grumpy front about it, Isabela could tell they had a genuine do-gooder on their hands.

Hawke had to be a saint. Some sort of prickly, unconventional saint, but a saint nonetheless.

She dragged them all around and outside of Kirkwall helping people, and even though Hawke put a grumpy front about it, Isabela could tell they had a genuine do-gooder on their hands.

“Are you really just going to turn him back into the Circle?” Anders asked, incensed, chasing after Hawke. “You’re just going to free him from one sort of slavery and turn him in to another!”

“Do not compare slavery with your so-called oppression,” Fenris said, glaring.

And, only a saint would put up with both of these two on a mission at the same time, even if she was stupid enough to bring them both in the first place.

“Both of you shut up!” Hawke snapped. “Leave your politics out of it. We’re going to rescue Feynriel and send him where he will be safest. Which is the Circle!”

Fenris grunted in approval while Anders turned sharply to her.

Isabela noticed the glint of an arrow in the sun, pointing towards the mage.

“You can’t really belie-”

She tackled him as the arrow sunk into the sand where he was standing. 

"Ambush!" she cried and whipped the double daggers from the sheaths on her back. Mercenaries, judging by the armor, burst out from the bluffs of the Wounded Coast and clashed against Hawke's little group.

It didn’t take long to cut them down. 

Isabela wiped her blades off on the nearest corpse and sheathed them.

“I wonder who keeps sending these idiots after us,” she said, “You can’t have made that many enemies yet.”

“I don’t care,” Hawke said, slipping her staff back into its leather strap. “They can hate me all they like. Let’s move out before the slavers get the kid.”

There it was. The tough front, the no-shits-given attitude, and the need to drop everything and save whoever needed it. Even after being attacked by random mercenaries who were, for some reason out for her blood. It was inane how little self-preservation Hawke had.

Isabela sighed and followed her at a jog. Hawke always got so worked up on these errands but she was particularly upset today, so much that there was frost creeping up the edges of her gauntlets. Not that either of the men noticed, for all that they were already half in love with her.

It was a good thing that she had Varric on her side or Hawke would invite more trouble that she could fix. Look at what had almost happened with Sister Petrice. Though, admittedly, Isabela thought as she remembered the pile of corpses they left behind, those that crossed Hawke tended to end up beyond help.

Hawke stopped in front of a cave and peered into it.

“I think this is it,” she said, casting a glance back at them. “Everyone ready?”

Fenris and Anders nodded. Isabela stretched and yawned.

“Are you sure you need me?” she asked, “These charity cases bore me.”

“Yes,” Hawke replied, completely straight faced, “I’ll ask for your opinion when I want it. Now let’s go.”

Isabela rolled her eyes and followed her into the cave. She never could resist needling Hawke, but she hated it when she couldn’t tell if the reply was a joke or not.

It was a good thing Hawke was useful, otherwise she might as well leave.

She caught Fenris looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

“What are you looking at?” she said.

“Didn’t you free a ship of slaves?” he asked, without putting down that infuriating brow.

Isabela huffed at the unasked question. She wouldn’t have actually left, not when Hawke needed her. But still, she wasn’t a good person.

“Yeah,” she said, “But don’t read into it.”

Ahead of them, Hawke shushed them.

Isabela saw that the frost on her gloves was gone. It took a minute for her to realize what had happened. Did Hawke need to be reminded that she wouldn’t actually leave? Did Fenris just--? 

She shot Fenris a look-- he had a small smug smile on his face.

She raised an eyebrow and hummed quietly. Maybe she should have given him a little more credit when it came to deciphering their fearless saint of a leader.

\---------

Could saints could be violent? Isabela wondered, wiping her blades off again. The look in Hawke's eyes as she shot a bunch of slavers in the chest with lighting was decidedly unsaintlike. 

The mage kid, Feynriel nearly tripped down the stairs as they approached.

“You were going to let them kill me!” he exclaimed. “I mean, thank you, but what if you were wrong?”

The boy was shaking. Quaking in his boots, really, not that she was surprised.

Hawke shook her head and gave a little sigh.

“You would be no good to him dead,” she said, “Dead hostages and dead merchandise don’t do anything for him.”

She was using that voice she used with Merrill quite often. The one that meant she was trying to be gentle.

“Is that my choice?” he asked, suddenly agree. “Prisoner or slave? Who are you anyway? Who sent you? The templars?”

“Your mother,” Hawke said.

Feynriel scoffed.

“Well hardly a difference,” he said. “A few bad dreams and she wants to ship me off to the Circle.”

Hawke frowned.

“If demons are already harrassing you in your sleep, you need to learn how to control your powers,” she said, “You have to go to the Circle.”

“What?” Feynriel exclaimed, “No, aren’t you an apostate too? How could you send me there?”

“Hawke,” Anders said, “The boy deserves a chance at freedom.”

She glared at him.

“Freedom to do what?” she demanded, “To starve in the streets? He’d have no where to go. The templars know who his parents are and when they find him, they’ll kill him.”

“I can go to the Dalish,” Feynriel blurted out, “They’ve had magic forever, and I’m as much Dalish as I am human. The Keeper can help me.”

Hawke looked surprised. 

“Your father was an apostate, wasn’t he?” Anders said. “You learned from your heritage, maybe so can he.”

“Hawke, you’re not seriously considering it, are you?” Fenris demanded, “He’d be rejected from the clan for his human heritage, then let loose on the world. It’s too dangerous.”

Ice was creeping up her gauntlets, again, thicker this time, Isabela noted. 

“You’re only saying that because you’re afraid,” Anders said, “He deserves the chance to at least find somewhere he belongs before you shove him into that hellhole!”

"It's the safest thing to do," Fenris snapped, "You're delusional if you think letting him loose is a good thing."

“Please, miss,” Feynriel begged, “Let me have this one chance- if the Dalish reject me, I’ll go to the Circle I-.”

“SHUT-!” Hawke lifted her hands to her ears then flung them down. “-UP!” The ice that had built up on her gloves slid off and crashed to the ground. 

Fenris actually jumped back. Anders’ mouth hung open and Isabela thought she saw an insect fly in. None of them had ever seen her lose control like that before.

Hawke looked at her hands for a moment, then wiped them on her robes. A reddish tinge crossed her face as she muttered curse words under her breath. She was embarrassed, Isabela realized in amazement. She had flipped out, and was embarrassed about it. So she could be human.

With her eyes fixed firmly on the wall above their heads, Hawke said, “Feynriel, go to the Dalish. Tell Keeper Marethari that Hawke sent you. She owes me a favor.”

“Th- thank you!” Feynriel put a hand over his heart. “I thought you weren’t going to let me go. Thank the Creators you were the ones my mother hired to find me.”

He glanced at Fenris, as if afraid he were to object, but Fenris had his eyes fixed on Hawke.

“I will forever be in your debt, friend,” Feynriel said, and ran off.

As soon as he was gone, Anders stepped forward.

“Hawke,” he said, reaching out.

“I’m fine,” she said shortly, “Don’t talk to me at the same time like that. Let's go.”

There was a muted silence as they ascended the stairs. Hawke wasn't a saint, no, Isabela decided. She might be a glorified errand runner, and put up with their antics in her prickly way, but she was no saint. She just kept everything under a tight lid. Isabela wondered how she hadn't burst already.


	8. Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was sickness in Kirkwall and most of it was in Anders' clinic. 
> 
> It would be weeks before it abated, and if Hawke came and asked for his help, he'd have to refuse. 
> 
> Anders hoped she wouldn’t be angry, even as he felt the conflicting rumble of approval from Justice.

There was sickness in Kirkwall.

The season was beginning to change, and as wetness rolled like a tide into the city, the fevered and coughing filled Anders’ clinic.

It would be weeks before it abated, he thought, scooping up yet another child from the arms of her mother and listening to her rasping breath.

Anders cradled her in one arm as she stirred and laid a hand against her chest. Closing his eyes, he channeled the Fade and let healing energy pulse inside her.

It was an easy enough cure, but it took time and there weren’t enough working hands in the clinic. He could get some of the healthy people to help but he’d have to work long and hard in the next few weeks.

He realized, with a jolt, that if Hawke came and asked for his help he’d have to refuse.

Hawke’s ventures sometimes took days. It was fine usually, but the cough could be deadly with complications and his Darktown patients were rarely in good shape.

He had come back to bodies on his doorstep before, when the dying or their friends hoped that his lantern was lit.

He couldn’t risk that, not even for Hawke.

Anders hoped she wouldn’t be angry, even as he felt the conflicting rumble of approval from Justice.

The little girl in his arms shifted and sighed and Anders stopped the flow of magic, before handing her back to her mother.

“She’ll wake up soon,” he said, “She should be better now, but keep an eye on her and make sure she rests.”

\---

He was at his wit’s end when she came, two days later, flanked by Varric and Aveline. Anders looked up at them, balancing a wailing child on each hip and nearly wailed himself.

The clinic was flooded with people, healthy and sick alike. He would have to start kicking people out to have room to work and send the recovering home. It was absolutely filthy. The chamber pot hadn’t been properly cleaned and dried vomit spotted the ground. He’d have to scrub that off later.

His work with the mage underground was waiting, but neither he nor Justice could let his patients wait for him with a good conscience.

And now Hawke was here and she was frowning and he still had to tell her no.

“Hawke,” he blurted out, “I can’t go with you today. Sorry.”

“Blondie, you look like you haven’t slept in two days,” Varric said, his brows wrinkling in concern.

Anders opened his mouth and closed it for a moment, thinking.

“That’s probably accurate,” he admitted, then winced as one of the children pounded on his chest, screaming for his mother. “One moment.”

He pivoted, looking for the woman who had handed the little monster to him, and settled the now-healthy child back in her arms.

Turning back to his friends, with a still crying child in hand, he suddenly became acutely aware of how much of a mess he looked. Now that Varric mentioned sleep, he couldn’t quite remember what he had last to eat either. He felt twitchy, high-strung, and completely exhausted.

“Is it an epidemic?” Hawke asked.

She stepped forward and took the child from him, bouncing him and muttering gentle words until he calmed down. It was sort of an odd picture. Hawke didn’t generally show any sort of tenderness, but she must be a spirit healer for a reason.

“Not quite,” Anders replied, “This is just general season sick, but it is worse than normal. It’s just me here. I can’t spare the time to follow you around.” A note of apology touched his voice.

“I’ll get Merrill then,” she said, “You’re doing important work here, and we’re just going on an errand for an ass of a merchant anyway.”

Relief swamped him. She thought he was doing important work too.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the child back. He was still sick, after all, and he didn’t want to infect Hawke. He placed his glowing hand on the child’s chest clearing his chest of the illness. “You handled him well.”

When he looked up again, Hawke was staring. She caught his look, then stood up straighter and shrugged.

“I had younger siblings,” she said. “I’ll see you around.”

And she swept out, leaving Anders feeling oddly like he missed something.

\---

He was slumped over one of his tables when someone shook him awake.

“Huh-wha-“ he jumped up onto his feet and spun.

It was Hawke.

“Your patients are quite loyal,” she said. “They wanted to keep me from waking you.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, bewildered.

She was alone, he noticed belatedly, albeit splattered with a bit of blood and with a basket in hand. She must have come here almost after finishing her “errand.”

“I’m helping,” she said, putting her basket on the table. She pulled out a boiled potato and slapped it into his hand. “Eat that. You look awful.”

He was too confused to do anything but obey, taking a bite. He was starving, he realized, and finished off the bland fare before he realized it.

“You’re still bloody,” he said.

Hawke handed him a flask of water, which he downed as well.

“We fought some dragons but I'm fine,” she said. “There’s more food in the basket, along with some lyrium poultices. Show me how to heal these people, then get some rest.”

“You don’t already know?” he asked.

Hawke shook her head.

“My father died before I could complete my training,” she said, “I can do wounds just fine, but I never trained with sickness or the finer points of spirit healing.”

“Being half-trained in spirit healing can be dangerous,” Anders said, brows furrowed. That fine attunement to the Fade had drawbacks. He was immune to possession because of Justice, but Hawke was definitely not.

She shook off his concern.

“He taught me how to deal with the Fade and the demons before the actual medicine,” she said, “I don’t have the healing knowledge. Just show me what to do.”

He nodded and stood.

Hawke was easy to teach. She listened quietly and made connections before he explained them and before long, she was healing his patients as well as he did.

“Go rest, Anders,” she said. “I’ll wake you if I have a question.”

Part of him wanted to refuse. It prickled at the thought of lying idle while someone else did his work for him. Another part of him wanted nothing more than to sleep. He hesitated and Hawke glared at him.

“Go to bed, Anders,” she snapped. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you pass out and bash your head against a wall.”

“Make sure to wake me if there’s an emergency, alright?” he said, hovering. “Promise.”

Hawke sighed in exasperation.

“I promise,” she said, “Anything I can’t handle and I will wake you up straight away.”

Anders nodded and turned away to his little cot in the back of the clinic. He wasn’t quite satisfied, but he didn’t exactly have a reasonable objection.

The moment his head hit the straw pillow, he was out like a light.

He woke naturally this time.

Daylight was streaming through the slats of his clinic, and he bolted upright.

Was Hawke still here? He didn’t just dream it, did he? How long had he been sleeping?

He burst out of his tiny room and saw Hawke sitting on top of a table with her hands glowing on an old woman’s chest and throat. The sick stood in a line, waiting for their turn for a healing. Empty poultice bottles littered the tabletop.

She looked weary, but determined.

Something in his heart warmed.

“Do you need a break?” he asked as he approached.

Hawke didn't looked up from her work, concentrating on the old woman before her.

"You're awake," she murmured.

"How long was I asleep?"

Hawke's hands stopped glowing. She leaned back and nodded at her patient, then brushed away the loose strands of hair that escaped from her ponytail.

"Hours," she said, glancing at the daylight. "Not sure how many."

Anders climbed on the table next to her and gestured for the next sick person to step forward.

"I can take over now," he said, but Hawke shook her head.

"I can keep going," she said. "You lasted longer than I did. Besides it'll be faster with two of us."

"How did you get them to line up like this?" The clinic was normally chaotic when it got this busy. It was almost unnerving.

Hawke chuckled.

"I got some of them to do it and healed them first. When someone had objections I yelled," she said. "The cough isn't so bad they can't stand."

She shook her head, beckoning another person from the line.

"I don't know how you deal with all the chaos," she said.

"It's have a system when it gets this crowded," he replied, "It's not complete chaos. Every time someone comes in I do a quick evaluation. If they're in danger of dying, I take care of it. If they need care soon but not immediately, they get treated after everyone who's in danger of dying. And those that will survive without my interference get treated after all that."

"That's very clever," she said. "Did you come up with that?"

"No," he said, "It was part of the training."

A moment of silence.

Anders glanced over at her to see her brow furrowed, perhaps in the work or in thought.

"Anders," she said quietly, "What was it like in the Circle?"

The light around his hands flickered and went out as he lost his grasp on the Fade. Of all things she could have asked, that was not one of them.

"Healer?" His patient shifted nervously. "Is everything alright?"

Anders looked up at her and the glow started up again.

"Yes," he said, "Sorry, I got distracted."

Hawke was silent.

He spared another glance at her, concentrating fiercely on her patient. Did she expect him to answer still?

He finished with his patient and sent her off, then turned towards Hawke again.

"Why?" Anders asked. "You’ve sent mages back to the Circle and you haven't listened to anything I've said about their injustices and suddenly you're eager to know?"

She scowled and bit her lip.

"I don't want to hear about that," she said, "I want to know about what it was like for you."

"It's the same thing!"

"No it's not," Hawke bit back. "Never mind. Forget I asked."

Anders shook his head and turned back to the line, pushing away the roiling emotions to focus.

\---

Hawke didn’t talk much the next few days, only to tell him to rest or eat.

They took turns sleeping on his cot and burned through lyrium potions. Carver would bring food for them every so often, probably at the behest of their mother.

“Why are you even doing this?” he asked once, after taking her aside. “You know the templars are looking for the clinic.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” she hissed back. “These people need help and Anders is- well he's my friend.”

His ears burned as Anders pretended not to overhear their conversation and he tried to focus more completely on his patient. Did she really consider him a friend?

“We’ve done so much to keep you from the templars and you’d throw that away to heal a bunch of Darktown low lives? That mage is going to drag you down with him.”

“If it wasn’t for Gamlen, those low lives could have been us, Carver. Have a goddamn heart.”

“You’re risking everything for this!” Carver was almost shouting now. It was hard to pretend he couldn’t hear them. “The expedition is so we can get away from your templars and you just-”

“I need to do this, Carver, you don’t get it! Leave me alone, you’re being unreasonable.”

“I’m not the one who’s wasting everything dad fought for on people who aren’t even family!”

There was the sound of a loud crack and a clatter.

Anders looked up in shock. Hawke had decked her brother with a fist covered in ice, the shards scattering across the ground.

Carver looked more surprised than hurt, but a thin stream of blood trickled down his face.

Hawke’s face changed from angry to horrified. She stepped forward, her hand glowing white for healing.

“Carver, I’m sorry,” she said.

He smacked her hand aside.

“I see which side you’ve chosen,” he spat, and stalked out of the clinic.

For one moment, Hawke looked terribly angry and horribly lost. Then she turned and saw the entire clinic staring at her and instantly shed the emotion from her face.

“I’m fine,” she said immediately.

When she walked back over to the table, Anders could see she was still shaking. She was angry, distracted, he could see that. She needed some time.

“No,” he said, and pointed back at his little room in the back. “Go rest.”

She hesitated for a moment, then grabbed her own wrist and went without comment.

Anders turned back to his patient and wondered how she could deny his cause but take his side against her own brother. He wondered how he could be so confused by one woman.

\---

It was almost surreal to see the clinic almost empty, nearly two weeks later.

Anders giggled hysterically after he finished the last person in line. He felt like he just peeled off rock armor after carrying it around for weeks.

Hawke roused from where she had fallen asleep next to him and blearily wiped her eyes.

“Anders?” she mumbled. “What’s going on?”

He just laughed and launched himself off the table.

“Hawke, we’re done! No one died!”

She sat up, staring at the clinic.

“This place is completely filthy,” she said. “It will take a lot of cleaning.”

He was too excited to care.

“I can do it right now,” he cried, “We can get this back in tip top shape.”

Then he saw how weary she looked and he paused. “Well, I can do it. You should probably get some rest.”

Hawke shook her head and yawned.

“You’ve been at this longer than me,” she said, “I can’t believe you want to get cleaning right away.”

Anders bounced on the balls of his feet.

“I feel great right now,” he said. “I feel like I could clean up the entirety of Darktown.”

He mulled that idea over in his head. He’d need a lot brushes and water to be able to do that.

Hawke chuckled.

“Don’t actually try,” she said, “You need some serious rest after those couple of weeks.”

“Well I can do the clinic at least,” he said. “You should go home and get some rest.”

Hawke looked at him oddly.

“Well if you’re sure,” she said. “I can stay around and help if you want.”

“You’ll be okay going home, won’t you? Your fight with Carver was...” Anders trailed off. "Pretty bad."

Her face darkened.

“He shouldn’t have brought up our father,” Hawke said tightly. “He knew that was a low blow.” Then she relented. “But I shouldn’t have punched him either. It might have been okay without the ice.”

Anders frowned. “If he tries to retaliate-”

She shook her head.

“We’ll fight about it, but Carver wouldn’t stab me in the back,” she said. “We’ve smacked each other around before, but we’re family, even if he doesn’t understand mage things.”

It still didn’t sit right by him. Family could and did betray and Anders frowned.

“If you’re sure,” he said slowly.

Hawke looked at him with a calculating eye then asked, “You never had a little brother, did you?”

Anders blinked, thinking of fathers rather than brothers, and shook his head. “No,” he said. “What’s with all the personal questions?”

“I want to know something about you,” Hawke replied. “All I really know is that you’re a Fereldan apostate who used to be a Warden.”

“If you want to know about me,” Anders said, stepping forward. “Then listen to me talk about mage rights. Justice. The cause is who I am.” Maybe she would finally listen to him.

Hawke frowned.

“That is not who you are,” she said slowly, as though she was trying to find the right words. “Even if I did agree with you, you are more than just your cause.”

The words struck him dumb. It had been a long time since someone treated him as something other than an abomination or a mage, but he wasn't sure if he wanted this. He didn’t want to be more than the cause of Justice. If he could be nothing but Justice, maybe he could leave behind the pain. Maybe he could get his friend back from the thing called Vengeance.

Hawke sighed.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t make you,” she said, gathering her things.

Anders stood there dumbly, surprised she hadn't pushed it.

“I’ll check up on you later,” Hawke said, walking towards the door. “Get some sleep.”

He nodded.

She stopped and turned halfway.

“If it’s alright,” she said, “Could I help out at the clinic again?”

She didn't need to ask his permission. It was nearly overwhelming, how much Hawke surprised him. He heard his mouth say, “Of course. I’d appreciate it." She smiled at him and disappeared.

Anders sat down hard. Hawke might not know anything about him, but he didn’t understand her either.

He wanted to, he realized. He wanted to understand her like a child pressed bruises to understand pain.

Justice disapproved.


	9. Templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relying on Ann for everything wasn’t an option anymore.

  
“I don’t really need him,” Ann had said.

The words cut fast and deep and they wouldn’t stop ringing through his head.

_I don’t really need him._

He wandered around Hightown, aimlessly without his sister to follow. The relentless sun beat down on his head, a warm day for the city. Maybe he could get a drink at the Hanged Man-- but no, Varric was gone too and drinking alone would only make him feel worse.

He didn’t even have friends that weren’t Ann’s, he thought. He scuffed at an errant weed poking through the cobble stone with his boot. Even to them he was the annoying tag-a-long brother.

It was a sort of agony to be left behind. Despite his complaining, he had always assumed he would have a place by his sister’s side, even with all of the fighting they had done lately.

Carver touched the cut on his cheek. The blow hurt his pride more than his face, but he had never let Ann touch it with healing magic. 

The fight in the clinic had gone so badly. He couldn’t understand why Ann would throw away everything their family had gone through for the underbelly of Kirkwall. It wasn’t like they didn’t have a healer in Anders.  
  
Ever since Ann and Bethany had come into their magic, he was supposed to protect his sisters. He had already failed Bethany and he spent all of his time in Kirkwall trying to protect Ann. Then, she literally punched him in the face rather than keep herself safe.   
  
It stung too much to forgive her. And she had replaced him as easily as finding a few friends.

_I don’t really need him._

Did he have a purpose besides protecting his sisters? He hated how he didn't know what to do without them, and Ann did not help. It was impossible to do anything for himself while she was around, and she didn't even realize it. His sister was like a black hole that sucked everything towards her and never let anything go.  
  
He groaned loudly and dragged his hands down his face. A few people gave him odd looks, but he ignored them. They could all screw themselves. Then, he realized he didn't recognize any of the buildings.   
  
He was lost.  
  
He hadn't been paying attention to where he had been going, simply because that was usually Ann's job. This was pathetic.   
  
Hightown stood on a bluff above the rest of the city. If he just kept walking south, he'd eventually find the edge, and from there he could find his way.  
  
He wondered how Ann was doing on the expedition. He had no doubt she would succeed. That’s what Ann did, after all. Succeed. She would come back with loads of gold and would make sure Mother would live in the lap of luxury, and would even provide for him.

_I don’t really need him._

Disgust boiled in his stomach and he kicked a pebble. It flew far off into the streets. 

Relying on Ann for everything wasn’t an option anymore.

A wall threw itself up in front of him as he turned a corner. A dead end. Absolutely brilliant. Carver threw up his arms before doubling back the way he came.

But what choice did he have?

He supposed he could return to the underworld and work for Athenril but that was an unattractive option. Grubbing in the filth of Kirkwall for a year had been enough for him.

No one legitimate wanted to hire Fereldans. Well, no one but Ann. Somehow she became a partial owner to the Bone Pit mine, which was the only businesses that hired Fereldans. The thought of working for his sister as a miner was even more humiliating than following her around Kirkwall. And Aveline had made sure his application to the guard was thrown out, and his military career was the only thing he had going for him.

Honestly, how did Aveline expect him to get a job and then keep him from actually landing one? He mumbled a few curses for her.

He'd been protecting people all his life, Ann, Bethany-- even his father, before he died. He was good at it, and just because he was tired of following his sister all the time did not mean he would make a terrible guard.  
  
The only other military operation in Kirkwall was the bloody templars.   
  
Carver sighed and shook his head. When he turned the corner, Kirkwall opened up before him. A shaded overlook was built on the bluff as it fell away and he stepped onto it, out of the sun. 

The Gallows and the Twins rose up on the hazy horizon. Carver could clearly mark out the sections that made up the different areas of Kirkwall. It was easy enough to orient himself up here. Still, it wasn't like he had anywhere to go. He idled there, enjoying the breezes that whisked away some of the heat. 

His gaze fell on the Gallows, home of the Circle and the mages and templars of Kirkwall.

That was the Circle his father escaped to marry his mother, where he met Ser Carver. He wondered why his father never told him where he got his name, or even talked about the Circle.

He wondered what his namesake was like. He was a templar, but his father had found a good friend in him.

What was so bad about being a templar anyway?

Carver began the walk down to Lowtown, his pace quickening.

Becoming a templar never seemed like an option, but why not?

Templars protected mages, and he spent his whole life protecting his apostate family. His thoughts flew to the fury on Ann's face, just before she punched him.

_I don't really need him._

Now Bethy was dead and Ann... Ann had other people.

Why shouldn't he be a templar? He could follow the path of his namesake. Mother would be upset. Ann would be furious.

He set off at a run, heading for the Lowtown docks before he could change his mind.

\----  
  
Templar initiation had taken a week. The Knight-Captain gave Carver a chance as soon as he heard that he had fought the Blight. He was given tests on chantry lore, on magic, on physical fitness. Finally, he was presented with a small vial of glowing blue lyrium he downed without hesitation, and put on his shiny new armor.   
  
It was the first time since Ostagar he wore plate armor and a sense of pride. 

He had forgotten how much plate clanked, as he walked back through the slums. He was given leave to gather his things from home, and then he was to return for the real training.

"I'm back," he called, as he entered the ramshackle flat. "I won't be here for long."

Gamlen lurched to his feet and and swore until his face turned red.   
  
Something crashed to the floor and he heard his mother shriek, "Carver!"

He had almost forgotten he hadn't told them what he had done.

"We thought you were dead, boy," Gamlen said, when he was done cursing, then strode over to him and threw his arms around him in an awkward hug. Carver couldn't really feel it through the armor, though he patted his uncle on the side. Gamlen let go quickly.  
  
It was odd, being at the center of so much attention. That was usually Ann's place.   
  
Mother barreled over from the other room, and stopped dead at the sight of his armor.

"Carver. What did you do?"

"I joined the Order," he said, shoving away the inkling of guilt. "Don't try to stop me."

Mother rushed forward and grabbed onto his gauntlet. He tried to tug it back, but she refused to let go. 

"Carver, the Order is so dangerous," she pleaded. "Please reconsider. I've already lost Bethany, I can't lose you too."

"I will be fine, Mother," he said tightly, and pried her fingers off him. "You were fine with Ann running around in the Deep Roads. That's a lot more dangerous than the Order."

He pushed her aside and headed for the room he and his sister hand shared. He didn't have many things; he could pack them up in a single box and be on his way. He didn't think coming back would be this much of a trial. He was not looking forward to Ann's reaction.  
  
"Is this because you and Ann have been fighting?" She trailed after him. "Your sister is still your family-- how could you become a templar?"

"I need to get away from Ann if I'm going to be someone, Mother." Carver refused to look at her, gathering spare clothes and throwing them into a box. "I've already made my decision."

He walked back over to the front room, grabbing a few poultices he stashed under the table and throwing them in the box as well.

"He's made up his mind, Leandra," Gamlen said. "Let him do what he wants."  
  
"Gamlen, don't encourage him!" Mother said.

Carver looked up at his uncle and met his gaze. Gamlen was a younger brother too, he remembered. He knew what it was like too. He nodded at him, grateful.

"I have to go," Carver said quickly. "I'll see if I can write."

The door opened as he turned.

Ann stood there, reaching for her staff, her face dead white. She saw his armor first, he realized with a vindictive thrill. She was afraid.

Then she recognized him and a look of confusion crossed her face.

"Carver," she said, her voice wary, "what are you wearing?"

"Oh good, you're back," Mother cried and other go of his arm to hang onto Ann's. "Please, talk him out of this!"

"I joined the Order," he said shortly, suddenly angry. "You can't change my mind."

Ann's face changed from white to red.

"Is this some juvenile payback because I left you behind?" she demanded.  
  
He rolled his eyes.   
  
"You can't stop making yourself the center of everything, can you?" Carver spat. "I'm doing this for myself or all I'm ever going to do is follow around in your shadow. I don't want anything to do with you."  
  
"I wouldn't care if you ran off to become a blacksmith," Ann said. "But one slight and you're going to run off and join the Order?"  
  
Ice was starting to form around Ann's hands and something bitter in Carver broke open.   
  
" _One_  slight?" he yelled. "I've been putting up with you so long, I don't have enough fingers and toes to count all the slights you've given me!"  
  
" _You_ put up with  _me_?" Ann snapped. "You've been giving me snide comments about how large my shadow for how long now? What am I supposed to do? Sit at home and wait for you to babysit me?"  
  
"Kids--" Mother hurried forward, but Gamlen grabbed her arm and shushed her.  
  
"You could care about what I think for half a moment!" Carver yelled. "Why don't you have get a sense of self preservation-"

"I can't believe it!" Ann yelled. "We've been hiding from templars-"  
  
"-and look you're making ice again, have some goddamn  _control-"  
_  
"-for our  _entire lives_  and you run off-"  
  
"-mages like you that we even have the Cir-"  
  
" _YOU'RE A TEMPLAR!"_ Ann shrieked. "You  _hunt mages!"_

"You're awfully scared of templars for someone who keeps sending other mages to them, you hypocrite," Carver snarled.

Ann looked like she had been slapped and fell silent. Ice was climbing rapidly up her arms. He shook his head with disgust.  
  
"Don't worry, I won't turn you in, even if you are a freak of nature," he said. He jabbed a finger at his cheek, pointing at the cut she left. "At least  _I_ know the meaning of _family_!"

That wasn't fair of him, but he didn't care. Just like Ann to make all his life decisions about herself. He spat on the floor and shoved past her on the way out.  
  
Outside stood Aveline, Varric, and Anders, all staring at him. He stalked past them without acknowledging them. Then in a fit of petty spite, he spun and yelled, "By the way, her name is Annabelle!"

He turned and ran, as he heard her screech and the ice shatter.

" _Carver!!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was frost around her wrists still, despite the clatter of ice on the floor. Hawke was breathing heavily and glassy-eyed, but no tears fell. No one said a word.


	10. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke was always single minded about her goals, but this was different. She wouldn’t sleep until her body made her, and when she woke up, the mirror was all she would talk about.
> 
> Before the expedition, Hawke would be interested in their work, but now she was desperate.

There was a knock on her door, and Merrill roused from her floor. Hawke was still next to her sleeping.  
  
She got up quietly, careful not to disturb her, and made her way to the door.  
  
Varric was outside, holding a basket of groceries, and Merrill held a finger to her lips for quiet.  
  
“How’s she doing?” he whispered.  
  
“I really don’t think she’s doing so well,” Merrill said. “She still won’t go home and she never stops working on the mirror, even if she’s thinking about other things. You should probably check on Anders as well. He came by to try and get her to leave and she yelled at him.”  
  
Varric winced.   
  
“Alright, Daisy, I’ll do that,” he said, and passed her the basket. “Tell Hawke she doesn’t have to worry about the results of the expedition. Her mother’s taking charge of it. You take care of Hawke alright? Make sure she eats something.”  
  
Merrill took the basket and smiled at him.   
  
“Don’t worry, Varric,” she said, “I’ll take care of her. Thank you for the food.”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Take care of yourself too, alright?” he said. “I’ll see you later, Daisy.”   
  
She waved as he left and closed the door behind him. She checked the basket. Inside was a small sack of millet, a packet of smoked fish, dried rose hips, and somehow, fresh berries as well.   
  
She smiled gently. It was just like Varric to splurge when his friends needed something.   
  
Merrill glanced over at Hawke, still sleeping on the floor.   
  
It was hard to see her like this.   
  
She was always single-minded about her goals, but this was different. She wouldn’t sleep until her body made her, and when she woke up, the mirror was all she would talk about.  
  
Before the expedition, Hawke would be interested in their work, but now she was desperate.  
  
Like she focused on the mirror so she could forget about other things.  
  
Merrill hummed to herself and set the basket on the table. She could make breakfast and make sure Hawke had something to eat. There was still charcoal inside her little wood stove, and so Merrill placed a bit of tinder and some kindling inside and lit it with a flick of her wrist. She filled a pot with millet and kettle with water and put them atop the stove.   
  
The fight had been really bad, she had heard. Varric had come to visit, to make sure she was alright after a week of his absence and told her about it.   
  
She had resolved to stay out of Hawke’s way for awhile, but the next day, Hawke had marched into her hovel, started work on the mirror, and refused to say much at all.   
  
Since then, her home became privy to a stream of visitors. Aveline came down, only to be ignored. Anders had been worried, and even Fenris came down to hover. Isabela stayed away, but Merrill suspected that was because she didn’t think she could do any good.   
  
She sighed as she pulled out two plates, wiping them with a cloth. Merrill unwrapped the packet of fish and broke off chunks for the both of them before tying it up again. The berries she placed in a small bowl in the center and the rose hips she placed in mugs waiting for hot water.  
  
There were fresh frostbite scars on Hawke’s arms so whatever Carver said must have been really bad. She had thought him rather nice, even if he and Hawke fought all the time. How could he have hurt his sister so badly?  
  
She hoped she could get Hawke to at least eat something. The few days she had been there, she had barely even drank anything.   
  
The kettle whistled. Hawke stirred on the floor and sat up.  
  
“Wha-” she murmured.   
  
"Oh you're awake!" Merrill smiled cheerily at her friend. Historically, Hawke disliked concern. It was better to be happy. She plucked the kettle off the stove and poured hot water into the mugs and the rest of it into the millet. "Good morning, Hawke. I'm making us breakfast. Varric stopped by earlier to give us some fresh berries! I have no idea how he managed get fresh elderberries at this time of year but I'm sure he had his ways. After all, they are right here."  
  
Hawke grumbled, and rubbed her eyes.   
  
"I'd rather just keep working," she said, turning back towards the mirror. "I'll eat later."  
  
Merrill rushed over to her.   
  
"Oh no you don't!" she exclaimed, grabbing Hawke's hand and pulling her up. "It's been later for two days already! Varric brought us some nice things and I'm already making food for the both of us so you're going to eat! Otherwise I will have to eat everything by myself because none of this keeps well and I will most likely be rather sick."  
  
"Besides," she said with a small smile, looking up at Hawke's blank stare. "It's always so much better to eat with friends."  
  
It was so strange to be on this end of the argument. Hawke would often have to make her eat when they worked on the mirror for long spells. But if Hawke wasn't taking care of herself, then it was her job this time.   
  
Hawke hesitated then sighed.   
  
"Alright alright," she said slowly. "Let's eat."  
  
A relieved smile spread over Merrill's face.  
  
"Oh good," she said. "I was afraid you were going to refuse."  
  
Hawke sat down without a word and shook her head without looking up. Merrill smiled and filled a bowl of porridge for her and set it down in front of her. She didn’t touch it, but continued to fiddle with her hands.   
  
Merrill quickly ladled herself a bowl and sat down across from Hawke.   
  
Was she going to say something? Merrill shifted in her seat. Hawke still hadn’t touched her food.   
  
"Dig in!" she said cheerily and grabbed her spoon. Hawke set her hand on the spoon slowly and deliberately, as though her limbs were weighed down.   
  
Merrill bit her lip.   
  
"Hawke," she said softly, "are you alright?"  
  
"I'm fine." was the immediate reply.   
  
"Hawke...." Merrill hesitated.   
  
"I said I'm fine," she snapped, and shoveled a spoonful of porridge in her mouth.   
  
She closed her mouth with a clack. If Hawke didn't want to talk about it, there wasn't much she could do. If pushed, she might just leave and she couldn't even make sure she would eat.   
  
Merrill sighed, piling her fish into her porridge.   
  
"Alright, but eat until you're full, okay?" she said. "And have as many berries as you want. They're really quite a treat."  
  
She dug in to her food. It had been awhile since she had eaten too, and she was hungry. Merrill ate quickly, without speaking.   
  
"Merrill,"  Hawke said and trailed off.   
  
She looked up. Hawke fiddled with her spoon, brow furrowed and mouth drawn. There was something she wanted to say. Merrill scooted to the edge of her seat and leaned forward.   
  
"Yes, Hawke?" she said.   
  
Hawke bit her lip, then let it go.  
  
"I think we should stop working on the mirror," she said finally.   
  
Merrill’s jaw dropped. This was not where she was expecting this conversation to go.

“What?” she exclaimed. “I thought it was important to you too!”

"We're not getting anywhere." Hawke scowled. "And it's too dangerous. We've cleared it of taint but I can still feel corruption in there and I don't know what it is."  
  
"That's no reason to give up!" Merrill stood and smacked her hands against the table. "We can figure it out together! Please, Hawke, this is so important; this could be the last eluvian in the world, we have to preserve it!"  
  
She felt tears prick in the corners of her eyes. How could Hawke do this?  
  
"Merrill, give it up," she snapped. "That mirror is corrupt and broken! You've driven away everyone for it. Marethari loves you and you left her no choice but to exile you."  
  
"I thought you were my friend," she said, rubbing furiously at her eyes. "If you won't help me I'll do it myself."  
  
"Merrill," Hawke said, standing, "Go home."  
  
She blinked furiously in return. Did Hawke not want to be her friend anymore? Why was she saying these things? What happened?  
  
It struck her like a bolt from the sky.   
  
"Carver didn't leave because he thought you were too dangerous," she said quietly, standing up straight. "And taking away my mirror from me won't make me less dangerous either."  
  
Hawke opened her mouth then closed it again. She took one breath, then another, then looked away.   
  
"You didn't hear what he said," she muttered.    
  
Merrill allowed herself a little sigh of relief. So it wasn't about her, not really. 

  
"No I didn't," she said. "But I can probably guess. I see how humans treat their mages."  
  
"He wasn't wrong though," Hawke muttered, and sat down. She picked up her spoon and stirred her porridge with it. "I am out of control."  
  
Merrill sputtered.   
  
"Hawke, that's ridiculous!" she exclaimed. "You're the most controlled person I've ever met!"  
  
She sighed and raised her hand. A glimmer of frost condensed on her skin.   
  
"I can't stop making ice," Hawke said. "It's been happening more and more lately." She grabbed her wrist and held it down. "I hit Carver with it a few weeks ago. I don't know what to do."  
  
There were so many things Merrill wanted to say and she wasn't sure how to say any of them. Instead, she leaned over the table, tiptoeing to gently pat Hawke's cheek.  
  
"It's okay," she said. "You're not making ice to hit people with, you just make it so you feel better right? You only do it when you're upset."  
  
She let her hand drift to Hawke's arm, pulling up her hand and lifting the edge of her sleeve with a thumb. Underneath were shiny frostbite scars, pale against her dusky skin.   
  
"It hurts you the most, Hawke," Merrill said. "If you have a reason to stop, it should be that one."  
  
The look Hawke gave her was horribly complicated; confused, sad, resigned-- it was too much to follow. Then she took Merrill's wrist in hand and lifted it so the crisscrossed scars on her wrist glinted in the faint sunlight.

  
"So says the blood mage," she said quietly.  
  
Merrill stared, frozen, then snatched her arm back and sat back down, wrapping her fingers around her wrist.   
  
"That's different," she muttered. "I'm not good enough to keep up with you all without it. I promised not to use it on the mirror, but I never said anything about battle."  
  
Hawke didn't say anything, but gave her sad look before picking up her spoon again   
  
Merrill sat quietly, running her thumb over her scars. It was an odd realization. Hawke didn't look at blood magic like Fenris or Anders. To her, it was the mage that was more important than the magic used.   
  
Merrill wondered if Marethari saw it the same way. Somehow, she didn't think so. Marethari treated blood magic like a corruption, and her as corrupted.   
  
Merrill picked up her spoon and started to eat again, before she could dwell.   
  
Together they ate in silence. Then, Merrill asked, chewing on a berry, "Are you going to keep working on the mirror?"  
  
Hawke hesitated, then said, "Yes, but..." she trailed off and swallowed. "I think I will go home for awhile. There are some things I have to take care of. But I'll be back."  
  
"Oh good." Merrill sighed with relief. "I was afraid you were never going to leave."  
  
Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Merrill?"  
  
Merrill clapped a hand to her mouth, when she realized what she had said. "Oh no, of course not, Hawke, I--" she stopped and quirked a brow at her. "Hawke," she said, "you're teasing me."  
  
Hawke hid a small smile behind her hand.   
  
"Yes," she said. "I was."  
  
"I was really worried for a moment there!" Merrill cried. "I thought you were mad at me."  
  
"Sorry," Hawke said sheepishly. Her eyes drifted downward and she sighed. "Sorry. I should apologize to Anders too."  
  
Merrill nodded.   
  
"It will be okay," she said. "Anders will understand."  
  
Hawke nodded slowly.   
  
"You would have made a really good Keeper, Merrill," she said quietly.  
  
It startled a laugh out of her. To her surprise and mortification, tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She hiccuped and rubbed them furiously.   
  
"Oh no," Hawke said, her voice thick, "if you cry, I'll cry too."  
  
The dam burst. Merrill's shoulders shook with a laughter she couldn't control, even as she wiped tears off her face. It was a sort of mourning, of possibilities lost-- and a sort of celebration, of possibilities gained.   
  
She had Hawke, even if Hawke was crying harder than she was laughing, even with her frostbitten arms and broken family.   
  
And Hawke had her too.   
  
Merrill pushed herself to her feet and threw herself at Hawke, who stood to catch her in a hug.   
  
"It'll be okay," she whispered between sobs. "It will be okay."  
  
Hawke grabbed her tighter and pressed her face into her hair.  They shook together.   
  
In that moment, Merrill felt like she understood love.


	11. Drinks With A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh hello," Leandra said. The lines on her face were drawn, weary, and her eyes red and puffy. "Varric and Anders, was it? What can I do for you?"
> 
> "We were wondering if Hawke would like to join us at the Hanged Man,” Varric said.

Anders tugged nervously on one of the feathers on his coat, staring at door in front of him.

"Varric, are you sure this is a good idea?" he whispered. "Hawke already told me to go away once, she doesn't need to tell me a second time."

The dwarf gave him a reassuring smile and patted him on the hip.

"Relax, Blondie," he said. "If she says no, we'll just be on our way. She can't be mad forever. If Merrill got her to leave she's probably feeling better too."

Anders shrugged and sighed.

"If you say so," he said, and raised a hand to knock on the door. "Here goes."

His knuckles stopped an inch from the wood. Anders took a deep breath and tried again, this time his knuckles just brushing the door.

Varric raised an eyebrow.

"You want me to do that for you?" he asked.

Sheepishly, Anders stuck his hand behind his back.

"Sorry," he said. "You do it."

"Don't worry about it, Blondie."

Varric stepped forward and rapped on the door. There was a muffled scrape from behind the door and Hawke's mother opened it.

"Oh hello," she said. The lines on her face were drawn, weary, and her eyes red and puffy. "Varric and Anders, was it? What can I do for you?"

"We were wondering if Hawke would like to join us at the Hanged Man,” Varric said.

Leandra glanced backwards then leaned forward.

“You both are trying to cheer her up?” she asked.

They both nodded solemnly.

She sighed and smoothed her hands out on her dress. “I haven’t seen Ann like this since her father died,” she said. “I want to keep her close but maybe leaving the house might do more for her. You boys took good care of her in the Deep Roads, you care for her now, alright?”

“Definitely, ma’am,” Varric said as Anders nodded vigorously.

Leandra smiled wearily at the two of them, then stood aside to let them in.

“Ann,” she called.

There was a crash and a thud and Hawke stumbled out into the room.

“What?” she said. “Is it more of Gamlen’s debtors?”

Then she looked up and froze.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

“Ann,” Leandra said gently. “They want to know if you wanted to go to the Hanged Man with them.”

Hawke shot her mother a look.

“I just promised I wouldn’t leave you,” she said.

Leandra shook her head and wiped her eyes.

“Dear, you can’t stay next to me all the time,” she said. “Go have some fun.”

Hawke still hesitated, and Anders held his breath. She met his eyes and looked away almost immediately. A moment passed, and she sighed.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Anders breathed again and smiled.

\-----

“Anders,” she said, as soon as Varric left to get drinks.

“Hmm?” He said, as his heart jumped into his throat. Was she going to tell him to get out again?

“I’m sorry,” she said, tracing the pattern of the wood with her nail. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Anders blinked, at a loss for words.

Hawke looked up at him, waiting, and biting her lower lip.

"I-uh," he said, raising a hand to pull on his feathers. "Thank you. Wasn't really expecting that but thank you."

Hawke frowned.

"Did you think I wouldn't apologize?" she said.

"No," he said. "It's not that--" Anders stopped talking and massaged a temple with a knuckle. "I just thought maybe you wouldn't want to see me anymore," he finally admitted.

She blinked at him, staring. He felt his face redden.

"That sounded a lot less idiotic in my head," he said, forcing a chuckle.

Hawke looked him, something akin to regret caught in her breath, then looked away.

“It’s not stupid,” she mumbled, “I should have realized.”

Anders shrugged. “You were upset,” he said. “Trying to stop you probably wasn’t the best idea either.”

“Still,” Hawke said sounding dry and matter-of-fact, even as she refused to look up from the table, “if you had actually left I don’t think I could forgive myself.”

Anders swallowed, his throat oddly dry, and he reached over, hesitating before he let his hand rest on hers, featherlight.

"Hawke," he said. "I'm- I'm-" what was he? How was he supposed to respond to that incredibly vulnerable confession? Warmth stirred beneath his breastbone. "-honored." he finished lamely.

She snorted. He grinned sheepishly and tried to withdraw his hand, but she grabbed it and gave it a firm squeeze.

"Anders," she said, almost too quietly for him to hear in the din of the bar. He leaned in, almost letting his head rest on top of hers. "Sometimes I wish I was a good a person as you."

Laughter escaped him. If this was a joke it was poorly timed... But no. Hawke was looking at him, confused and nervous, and Maker, she was serious.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked.

He shook his head, still struggling to contain his bemusement.

"No, it's not that," he said. "It's just that- you know-" he waves his hand aimlessly, "-you sure can pick your role models."

She frowned, narrowing her eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

For someone who thought everything he stood for was immoral, she sure was oblivious.

"Hello?" he said, gesturing to all of himself. "Apostate abomination living in the sewers? You could do better than me. Your father was a good man, wasn't he? Follow his example."

Hawke stared at him.

"Now that you mention it, you remind me quite a bit of my father," she said.

Anders groaned.

"Not the point," he said. "I thought you disapproved of my... arrangement with Justice."

Hawke's mouth curled into a little scowl. "I do," she said. "But I’ve been thinking about and-” she looked down and tapped the table before setting her mouth into a stubborn line and staring him in the eye. “I don't think he's a demon anymore. A demon wouldn't wait for this long to wreak havoc and destruction."

"And if it's just my will that's holding him back?"

Hawke gave him a look halfway between fond and scathing. "Then you wouldn't be able to work yourself half to death without him taking over. I just don't think your "arrangement" is very good for you."

"But.. Vengeance-" Anders retorted. "When I get too angry, I corrupt him."

What was he saying? Was he trying to convince Hawke he was dangerous?

"Look," she said. "I don't know Justice or what he was like before or anything. But if you ask me, the only difference between justice and vengeance is impartiality."

She tapped his chest with a finger.

"I don't know what happened to you, but if you two are one and the same... There's simply no way for Justice to be impartial anymore."

Anders took his hand back.

"So he is Vengeance then," he muttered.

"Maybe," she said. "But even if he is, if the only difference is impartiality, is Vengeance even a demon?"

Anders scratched his head. "I-I don't know."

"Me neither." she said. "Maybe he's both or neither, or maybe just part human now that you two share a body."

"Maker knows it'd be difficult to sort us mortals by our sins," he mused.

Hawke snorted.

"Exactly," she said. "You should really talk to Merrill more about it."

Anders recoiled.

"You listened to her talk about her demons?"

Hawke scowled.

"It's not like I agree with everything she says," she said. "The Dalish have some very different ideas about the Fade from the Chantry and it's interesting. I asked Merrill about how the Dalish dealt with magic after I sent Feynriel there."

She shot him a reproachful look.

He was the one who pushed for it, but she was the one who thought to follow up.

"We should all just listen to each other more," she said. "I've never had so many friends before. I want to know if something's wrong before it's too late."

Anders shot her a furtive glance. Hawke traced the pattern of the wooden table with her finger again. She was probably thinking about Carver again.

How did she not see it coming? It seemed to be as plain as the nose on his face. Maybe it was because they were family. Maybe it was hidden in plain sight, buried beneath all of his bluster. Maybe it was just unwavering faith.

"Hey," he said, nudging her with a shoulder. She looked up at him, almost wearily. He gave her a wry smile. "I wish I were as good a person as you too."


End file.
